Do You Like My Panties?

My name is Tina, not my real name, my real name is Edna. I was named after my grandmother and I hate that name. I go by Tina on the street and the only time anyone calls me Edna is when I have to attend a family gathering, such as weddings and funerals.

If my family only knew what I did for a living they would die of shame and embarrassment. They'd disown me. Weird Uncle Harold, along with a few of my cousins, no doubt, would want to take advantage of my services. They'd even ask for a discount, too, since we're family. Only, I don't do family. Incest is not my thing. I won't even do someone that I know, an old classmate, a neighbor, or a friend. I'd rather maintain my reputation and not have everyone know my personal business.

Only, my family wouldn't believe me, if I told them that I was a prostitute. My Mom would be so hurt knowing that I had sex for money. She thinks I work downtown for an insurance agency. The only full coverage I supply is naked body coverage to my Johns and my Janes.

Anyway, I didn't write this story to talk about myself. I wrote this story to talk about my clients, my Johns and my Janes, but this story is about my Johns, one John in particular, one who has a panty fetish. I'm hoping one day that if I have enough of these little vignette type of stories written that I can string them together into a book called Prostitute Peccadilloes.

What do you think? Do you like that name? I don't know why I like that title for a book, but I do. The name peccadillo reminds me of Piccadilly and when a John picks me to have sex with he sure has picked a dilly. Get it? Oh, never mind.

As you may have figured out by now, I'm a prostitute. I have sex for money. Whatever they want and whenever they want it, I'll do it, so long as they pay and so long that it's not so vile that it disgusts even me. I don't mind giving a golden shower, but I'll never take a golden shower. I know some girls who will even allow the John to pee in her mouth. Not me.

"Gross. Eww. That's just nasty."

It's not a bad job, so long as I'm careful, use my head, and not get so greedy over money that it ruins my judgment and gets me in trouble. Too many girls get in over their head trouble because they get greedy, especially when taking on 3 and 4 guys alone. I use the premise, if it sounds too good to be true...

Only, I don't look like a prostitute. I don't dress like a prostitute, walk or talk like a prostitute. I look like any other woman on the street. To look at me, to see me standing in a grocery store line or depositing money at the bank, you'd never think I was a hooker. The only difference between me and any other woman out there is, if you want to get with me, you must pay me. I'm a call girl money at prostitute money. In retrospect, I'm probably closer to a call girl than I am to a prostitute.

I'm discreet in what I do for a living. Only my clients know what I am. It's a two way street. I don't tell on them and they don't tell on me. Why ruin a good thing? An indiscretion will get you hurt, maybe even killed, on the street. So, I don't go there. I'm careful. I really am.

I get my clients by word of mouth referrals. Just as I don't have to stand on the corner waiting for some guy to notice me, pull up in his car, and negotiate price, that's not my thing. I'm not stupid. I don't attract the attention of the vice cops nor am I fighting with other prostitutes for corner space territory and fending off pimps, while I'm doing that.

I prefer knowing, instead, who my clients are. I know it may sound bizarre to you, but it keeps me safe. If they don't give me their real names, addresses, and telephone numbers, then we don't get together. Knowing who they are keeps me out of trouble and out of harm's way.

Yeah, sure, I've lost some clients, those how don't trust me enough to tell me who they really are. Yet, the only guys who don't go along with my need to be and feel safe are the ones who'd want to hurt me and/or rob me, anyway. Once the men realize that I don't have an ulterior motive in knowing their identity, they understand.

I'm not going to turn them in on their wives or girlfriends, because it will ruin my business, as much as it will ruin their reputation, marriage, or relationship. Most men understand and freely give me all the personal information I need to feel safe. They've even gone as far as to show me their driver's license.

"Achmed Mohammed? Is that really your name? You're not a terrorist are you? You're the first Muslim I've seen with blonde hair and blue eyes."

Single men, women, or couples, I've done them all. I'm not skanky like some of the hookers on the street. I take more pride in my appearance. I guess if you had to define me, I'd be more of a call girl than a hooker. I'm not as high priced as a call girl, but I'd never suck some guys cock in an alley for ten bucks, just to buy some crack cocaine either. I don't do drugs.

I don't work with a pimp either. Pimps just beat you, get you hooked on crack, and take all your money. Consequently, I run without protection. It's up to me to protect myself by using my head, paying attention to my gut feeling, and trusting my street smarts. I've done alright by that so far, mostly because I'm not addicted to drugs and I have a brain in my head.

Besides, most of my clients are regulars. They trust me. I'm more like a friend to them, a friend with benefits, albeit one they must pay to reap the rewards of my benefits, if you know what I mean.

I prefer having sex with someone that I've had sex with before. The sex is always better the second time anyway. I know what they want. I know what they need. I know what they like. I know what to expect.

Still, I can talk a good game. I carry around a photo of my pretend pimp, an ex All American football player that I took, while he still had his shirt off. I sucked his cock for $100. Wow, did that man have a body, the best one I've ever seen. I would have sucked his cock for free, just to feel his muscles. Anyway, I carry his photo around with me in my purse and tell my clients, the ones who are acting funny and nervous, that my pimp is waiting downstairs for me and if they don't want any trouble, not to delay my departure by even a minute or my pimp will rip their face off.

Tyrone, the man I carry his picture around with me, would have been famous. He would have been somebody, had he not gotten himself shot. After signing a big contract with a professional football team, he was clubbing with friends and he thought he was Superman or something. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and hitting on some Dude's girlfriend or wife or baby's mama. Whatever, he brought it on himself by being dumb.

Anyway, the Dude pulled out a gun, a Glock, and shot his woman pointblank in the face. He killed her. Then, he turns the gun on Tyrone. Well, Tyrone grabs for the gun but gets shot in the shoulder.

With all the muscle, nerve, and tendon damage that the bullet caused, the wound ended his competitive career. Even with being shot, though, Tyrone nearly killed the man with his fists. I guess it must have been the adrenaline pumping through his body for him not to feel the pain from the bullet wound. He knocked out the guys teeth, blackened both his eyes, and broke his ribs, his nose, and his jaw. The guy is serving life without parole, while Tyrone works as a bouncer for some club somewhere.

So far, I haven't had a problem. Carrying Tyrone's photo around with me, a photo of a man with muscles, even on his forehead, is the best protection that I could have. I decided not to carry a gun. My Johns may take the gun away from me and use it on me.

Besides, I could never shoot anyone. A cop friend of mine, one that I meet in the alley, every other Tuesday, and give him a freebee in his patrol car, gave me some good advice. I have sex with him, so that he'll leave me alone and allow me to work without vice cops coming down on my head and throwing my ass in jail. Anyway, he told me that, unless I can shoot somebody, not to carry a gun. So, I don't. He told me to get a permit to carry Mace.

Larry, my cop friend, is a good guy. He protects me. He's married and his wife doesn't give him any love because, well, he's a cop and he's never home. Even when he is home, he's seen so much shit during the day, that he's not there for his wife or kids. He's brain dead. All he wants to do is veg-out with a beer and watch TV. I don't blame the guy. We're friends.

The real purpose of this story is to write about Marvin. Marvin is a little Jewish man. He owns a jewelry store downtown. Consequently, because Marvin has money and appreciates what I do for him, when I take care of Marvin, he takes care of me. I love having clients like Marvin. He's a regular.

Besides paying me for sex, actually, we never have sex, as he never touches me and doesn't want me to touch him, he always brings me a little bobble, a solid gold trinket of our friendship. He likes me. Only, someone like Marvin, so embroiled in his Temple and his Jewish community, not being devoted to mention his wife, who is such a bitch and a nag, he'd never leave her for someone like me. He just looks forward to having a little fun with me on the side and to partake in his panty fetish. Besides, without questions, guilt, or judgments, I understand his needs and I give him what he wants.

Marvin likes panties, an understatement. Marvin loves panties. He has a panty fetish. He showed me a photo of his wife and she's short and fat, not tall and slim like me. She wears granny panties and Marvin hates granny panties.

Marvin likes bikini panties, his favorite, and Marvin likes me because I look good in bikini panties. I have a nice ass, with long, shapely legs, and a shaved pussy. Consequently, every time Marvin comes to see me, which is once a month, always on the first day of the month, he brings me a selection of new panties in a rainbow of colors and a range of styles to wear, to model, and to keep.

I can't remember the last time I bought a pair of panties. And Marvin doesn't buy cheap panties either, he buys the good stuff. Some of his panties cost $30 and more a pop. The man knows his panties.

He pays me $300 to model the panties he buys me. All I have to do is to remove my panties in front of him and put on the new panties. It's not even so much that he likes seeing my body, my ass and my pussy. It's the panties that drives him wild. He loves watching me remove, put on, and take off my panties over and again. In the course of the hour that I'm with him, I do that about a dozen times.

I take my panties off and put on one of the ones he bought me. Then, I walk around while wearing them and flashing him, before removing them to put on a new pair. That's it. It's that easy. That's all that I have to do. It's almost like going to the lingerie store. He makes me feel more like a model working for a high class lingerie manufacturer than I feel like a prostitute working for a John. I love Johns like Marvin. He's fun.

He likes it when I pretend he's not in the room. Totally disregarding him, he likes it when I act as if he's not there and I'm alone changing my panties. I play the part, too. I slowly remove my panties and slowly put on my panties to make sure he has a good look of my panties. I guess he's a bit of a voyeur in that regard, but only when it comes to panties.

Sometimes he wants me to put on the panties slowly or quickly and take off the panties slowly or quickly, especially when I'm wearing a short skirt and while looking at myself in the mirror. He loves it when I pretend he's not even there in the room with me. Sometimes, he wants me to remove my skirt and to walk around only wearing the panties he bought me. Sometimes, he wants me to sit across from him, while he sits on the floor and masturbates. He enjoys looking up my short skirt at my panties. Sometimes, he even wants me to wear the panties over my pants ala Madonna. Sometimes he wants me to do any combination of those things or all of those things over and again.

I never know what he's in the mood for me to do. Yet, whatever it is, it has to do with my panties and only my panties. I don't mind giving Marvin a show and doing whatever he wants me to do, so long as he pays me. He's a little weird and a little kinky, but harmless. Besides, I've done much worse for some guys and Marvin appreciates what I do for him. He pays me well for having me satisfy the pleasure of his panty fetish and then there are all those free panties, as a bonus, too.

He never touches me and he never asks me to touch him. He's not into dirty or soiled panties and he never wants to smell my panties. He just likes to watch me wear the new panties he bought me. I don't ask him questions about his fetish. I really don't want to know or to understand why he enjoys doing the things he likes to do. Besides, for fear of losing him as a client, I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I just do what he pays me to do. We only talk before and after, never during our session.

He's weird, but he's a nice weird. He's the closest man I have to a grandfather. Anyway, Marvin helps me. He's smart. He knows a little about a lot of things.

He tells me where to invest my money and he helps me by telling me where to go to buy things when I need to make a large purchase. He has a lot of Jewish friends and they all own businesses. They give one another discounts, which is how he's able to get me good prices on so many things.

"Go to this address," he says handing me a piece of paper on it with an address, "and ask for Saul or Irving or Myron. Tell him you're a friend of mine and he'll take care of you. And if anyone gives you a hard time or doesn't treat you right," he says pointing his finger, "you tell him to call me on my cell phone."

He's the type of guy who doesn't pay retail for anything. He doesn't have to. He pays wholesale for everything he buys and when his friends need jewelry, he reciprocates by giving them a discount, too.

He's even helped me to buy a car by giving me the down payment. I'd do anything for Marvin, even show him my panties, especially when he gives me jewelry with my money.